There is almost a revelation of God in the cries upward to Him, of some of his human souls. Says Wordsworth:
Thou who didst wrap the cloud
Of infancy around us, that Thyself,
Therein with our simplicity awhile
Mightst hold on earth communion undisturbed;
Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep,
Or from its deathlike void, with punctual care,
And touch as gentle as the morning light,
Restor'st us daily—
Thou, Thou alone.
Art everlasting!
The poet Young, driven by sorrow to God's foot-stool, addresses his Creator in the same nobility of language:
Thou, who didst put to flight
Primeval silence, when the morning stars,
Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball;
O Thou! whose word from solid darkness struck
That spark the sun, strike wisdom from my soul;
My soul which flies to Thee, her trust, her treasure,
As misers to their gold, while others rest.
"Come unto me, ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." Therefore, accept this boon. Take your own child by the hand, and pray, and pray:
The way is long, my Father! and my soul
Longs for the rest and quiet of the goal;
While yet I journey through this weary land,
Keep me from wandering, Father, take my hand.
